The Rose
by The Half Mad Muggle
Summary: Things changed after the war, including his feelings. But how best to express them? There was always a starting point. AU. Implied HP/SS, very mild.


**The Rose**

_I'm afraid I was taken ill this morning which put to rest my plans to update my other stories - should get them done tomorrow instead now, what with my Remus away *sad face*. This is written for HisBratWhoLived and HisPotionMaster on Twitter for being my absolute rock this week, and also for YenGirl - I hope you all enjoy it. _

_It's a departure from the usual and not my normal pairing, but my dear friends...I hope you will forgive this Muggle an experiment. But as I say, other updates tomorrow hopefully, including Tricks of the Mind. x_

* * *

He ought not to be there, and if he should be caught, explaining would also be difficult. But like the moth to the flame, he had been drawn, and he could not tear himself away. Protected by the thick warmth and almost silvery sheen of his Invisibility Cloak, he stood out of sight - out of mind - able to watch and observe and _see_.

See the object of his affections - hard as that was to admit.

Things had changed. He was different. So was the one he watched. His very eyes had changed. He saw something new.

The subject's head was bowed over a cauldron, dark hair shielding his expression as he examined the results of his brewing. How he longed to brush that soft hair back from his eyes and expose the pale skin beneath - the strong yet so very delicate features - long eyelashes and black irises that gave way to such emotion, so cleverly concealed. How he wished he could trace just one finger - his index finger, he fancied - across slightly pink lips - wondering what they would taste of. He had imagined cinnamon, a spicy taste - perhaps herbal - during long nights since that fateful encounter in the Shrieking Shack when he had _realised_. Something that would reflect his obsession with potions and experiments.

The other started, and his head turned as he glanced toward the clock chiming quietly upon the desk, showing the lateness of the night. His right hand, probably subconsciously now, rested on his shoulder. Silver scars of an injury that would never truly heal lined the skin, the best evidence for the sacrifices he had made. He had seen them once, these scars, had seen them in the Healer's Ward as dark magic had been battled and mortality fought and finally life was triumphant. He wondered if they hurt. He could soothe them better with gentle, tender touch.

The end of the war had been good to him. Some weight had been gained - he could see that even with the robes - robes that he desired to remove - to run his fingers down that black frock coat and taste the salt of the skin that lay beneath. Such thoughts were impure and he did not understand their origin - only that they haunted his every moment, driving him ever closer to madness - and he wondered if he was truly insane, now.

Everything he had done, everything he had seen, everything he had become - perhaps they had taken their toll, after all, for he was lost now - a ship in a storm - without an anchor -

Much like the man he stared at. Wandering without a cause, lonely without something to fight for, he had seen that in those black eyes. They had been through so much, paths entwined, destinies bound, able in the end to save each other from evil - but now, he wished to know if he could be saved from something else.

With a flurry of black robes, fire was extinguished beneath a cauldron and hands rested on the desk, fingers stretched. Those fingers, careful and light and talented - they manipulated ingredients as they manipulated his mind, and he wanted to know what they could _feel_. He wished to know what they could accomplish, other sensations, things he had yet to know...

"Accio journal."

The voice - _that voice _- broke the silence, and he fought the thrill of glee and the twist of...something. The voice that had been a part of his life since he was eleven years old - had heard it cruel and angry and heartbroken and sarcastic - but never so _soft _until he had been dying. Three tiny, insignificant words spoken amongst dust and disarray and death and the end of the world - _at _the end of the world - gentle and rasping - the hand on his robes - and only then had he realised, had he understood, the depth of emotion. He wanted to hear the voice so soft again, to hear it tender, loving, saying his name - and he was beginning to know that it was lust that he felt, underlined, emphasised, with something far stronger.

These were no chemicals.

Scribbling of quill on parchment ceased and he stood. The laboratory was left in silence when the door closed, and he stole his moment. He crept across the cold stone tiles and left his gift in the centre of the table. His fingertips traced the stirring rod and breathed in his scent and knew he was willing to wait a little longer - he had to be slow and cautious, not a Gryffindor, no, he needed to be a Slytherin this time.

And he could not linger, much as he wished to - for here he felt safe, with the man who had given body and blood and mind and soul to protect him, more than anyone else - how could he _not _feel something now that he knew this - but it was more than gratitude - it was attraction of the most beautiful and agonising kind - and he would _wait_. He would wait to be invited to stay, wait to be invited to sleep, to enjoy that dark hair and pale skin and long fingers and kiss those lips and those scars, and breathe in his scent and taste his skin - that could wait.

He would wait.

He was returning to the door when footsteps echoed. He froze - he had not expected to be here for a _reaction _- could he bear it - what if his gift was burnt, anonymous though it was? Could he turn around? He would never forgive himself if he did not - so he very quietly, very slowly, turned his head to watch.

Those long fingers picked up the flower on the desk, and those dark eyes narrowed at the sight, and the smell of the rose was inhaled. The expression on that face - a face he knew well - was almost vulnerable, for once unguarded, and he saw _longing _there.

The ebony wand was raised and placed against the petals of the flower. He wanted to flinch but his body was paralysed.

He watched as the petals were transformed from ruby red to jet black.

Jet black?

Eyes raised and contact was made - whether it was intentional or not, he would never know.

Emerald met obsidian.

Because Harry Potter was watching, and Severus Snape was staring back.


End file.
